My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

Horatio’s daughter-in-law, Evelyn Thorne, stood silently before her in the sunlight shining through the window. Her lightly clasped hands trembled. The sun washed the color from her skin and bleached her fair hair, giving her the appearance of a noontide specter, too timid to haunt the night.

  “You’ll want to collect your things,” Evelyn said in her soft, hesitant voice. “You might send for the driver. That is, if you think that’s right.”

  Lily gazed at her without understanding.

  A tentative smile flickered over Evelyn’s face. “You are going to come to Mill House, aren’t you?” She paused. “It seems a waste to maintain two separate establishments.”

  Her friendliness when Lily had expected only resentment was irresistible. She returned Evelyn’s smile with a rueful one of her own. “No one could possibly call my rented room an ‘establishment,’ Mrs. Thorne.”

  Evelyn’s cheeks grew pink.

  “Forgive me,” Lily said, rising to her feet. She stood a head taller than Evelyn and now, this close, one could discern the finest net of lines at the corners of her lovely gray eyes, a delicate crepe on her slender neck. She was older than Lily had first surmised, nearer thirty-five than twenty-five.

  Lily stuffed the letter into her skirt pocket. “I have been set up for failure, Mrs. Thorne. I can’t possibly fulfill the terms of your father-in-law’s will. I have no idea how to begin handling an estate.”

  “I understand,” Evelyn concurred. “I would not dream of interfering but should I hazard a guess, I would assume Mill House must have certain systems in place to keep it running.” She swallowed.

  Lily studied Evelyn thoughtfully. She was right. Presumably, the operations at Mill House hadn’t come grinding to a halt since Horatio’s death. If she just had the time to figure out how things worked …

  “But what about Mr. Thorne’s daughter? She looks a formidable sort of woman. Won’t she resent a stranger’s coming into her home and taking over the management, especially someone as inexperienced as I?”

  “Francesca?” Evelyn’s eyes widened. “She’s never used it as more than a temporary home. I assure you, Francesca doesn’t care who lives in the house or handles the estate. Besides, Horatio has provided her, as well as my son and I, with ample means.”

  “Well, there’s still the matter of Mr. Avery Thorne,” Lily said. “Mill House could be his. He will doubtless contest the will.” She warmed to her subject. “He’ll only need to appear in court to have the judicial system deem him right, regardless of the issue, by virtue of his gender alone. He—”

  “He has left for Africa, Miss Bede,” Evelyn cut in gently. “This past Friday.”

  “What?”

  “We had a letter from him. He intends to spend the next five years traveling.”

  “Traveling,” Lily echoed dumbly.

  “Yes. He … he stated his, um, disappointment with the terms of the will and his confidence that he shall assume ownership of Mill House upon his return five years hence.”

  Evelyn held a hand out. “At least Avery won’t be contesting the will if he’s not in England. So, until we discover his plans, won’t you be more comfortable at home?”

  “Home?” Lily said. She could not believe Avery Thorne had relinquished his claim on Mill House without a fight. Perhaps the house meant nothing to him. Perhaps he did not need a home as desperately as she did.

  Evelyn flushed and her lashes fluttered. “I—we’ll vacate the premises of course. As soon as you wish.”

  “No!” Lily said in shock. “Please. Even if I were inclined to accept the will’s terms, I could never do so knowing that my windfall had resulted in your eviction.”

  “Oh, we can take up residence at the town house. It’s very … fashionable. Quite grand.”

  “But it isn’t your home,” Lily insisted.

  “Well, I could no longer live at Mill House knowing that in doing so we’d kept you from accepting it.” There was a stubborn smoothness to Evelyn’s clear brow. “I suppose …” Evelyn flashed her an anxious glance. “That is perhaps, if we helped with the expenses, we might …”

  “Yes?” Lily prodded.

  “We might all live there?”

  Lily stared.

  “At home,” Evelyn clarified.

  Home. The word swept through Lily with a tidal wave of longing. She’d never had a home, just rented garrets, lofts in the city, and borrowed cottages.

  She considered her options. She could receive a princely stipend for as many years as she could keep silent on a subject about which she had decidedly strong opinions or she could take a chance.

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “I believe we could. But first I have some affairs to settle. I will come to Mill House by week’s end.”

  She would never have been able to keep quiet anyway.

  Chapter Two

  Devon, England

  September 1887

  “Almost there, Miss Bede,” the driver said with a wink before turning his attention back to his horse.

  Lily told herself not to gape. After all, she’d been in manor houses before. Several of her father’s friends maintained fabulous estates. But, she thought with a wide grin, she’d never seen a manor that could someday be hers.

  The hack came round the cypress alley into the drive and she forgot her self-admonition. She gaped.

  Mill House was lovely. Only a hundred years old, it had been built of a locally quarried buff stone. The hand-hewn blocks glowed the color of clover honey in the warm mid-morning light. Tall windows were set in the south-facing front facade, their regimented symmetry flanking a simple, raised entry, their gleaming glass throwing back a rare reflection of flawless blue sky.

  True to its rural origins, no trees or gardens crowded the house. Only a single ancient cypress towered behind one comer. Lacing through a green field dotted with lady’s mantle and cowslip, a small, lively river flowed beneath steep, mossy banks. Beyond that, Lily could make out a plowman harrowing a field. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The rich odor of the freshly turned loam scented the air. Exquisite.

  The driver drew the carriage to a halt, sprang from his seat, and came round to hand her down. As if on cue, the door opened and a severely dressed middle-aged man appeared at the top of the stairs. His face was country homely, the features bunched closely together in the center of his face, his gray hair a thicket of wiry brush.

  In the dim hall behind him a seemingly endless row of people assembled: young, old, mostly women, a few young lads, some in aprons, others in rough garb. Servants.

  Her parents had never employed more than a daily.

  Lily mounted the exterior steps and the older man hastened forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jacob Flowers, Miss Bede.”

  “And what is your position, Mr. Flowers?”

  “I am the butler. I oversee the indoor staff, miss,” he said. He waved his hand toward the line of people. “This staff. May I present them?”

  Aware of countless eyes fastened on her, Lily could only nod. Mr. Flowers ushered her ahead of him. He fired off names as they passed servants who fell into bows and curtsies like tin rabbits being hit by pellets at a country fair shooting gallery.

  By the time they’d reached the last kitchen girl—an apple-cheeked lass with a suspiciously taut apron—Lily’s head was spinning.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Twenty-nine, Miss Bede,” Mr. Flowers announced proudly, “and that don’t count the outdoor staff.”

  “’Course”—his eye fell like a scepter on the pregnant maid—“we’ll soon be twenty-eight.”

  “So many people to care for one building?” she asked. “What do they all do?” Rough hands, daubs of charcoal, and the smell of strong lye told the tale of the women’s employment easily enough, but Lily wondered about the six tall, immaculately groomed young men in white gloves. “What do they do?”

  “Carry silver trays and fetch packages from town.” At Lily’s still puzzled expression, Mr. Flower
s added, “Serve at dinner parties, hold carriage horses, lower the hall chandelier. And raise it, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. She looked back down the line. Every face was turned toward her, some shuttered, some curious, a few with that daunting look of familiarity, the one that so clearly stated, “You aren’t my better, gypsy get, you aren’t even my equal.”

  Her heartbeat began a frightened race. She scoured her mind for something to say.

  “In the weeks to come,” she began, her voice quavering, “things shall change at Mill House. Those whose work I consider superfluous will be let go, of course, with letters of recommendation.”

  “What you mean ‘superfluous?’ ” a voice asked.

  “I mean those whose skills are unnecessary in the simple day-to-day running of this estate.”

  “Don’t worry, Peg. There’ll always be a call for your particular skills, lass,” a male voice called out followed by a spat of laughter. Lily’s gaze settled on a brash-looking lad.

  “Leave,” she said.

  “What? You can’t—”

  “I can. You are no longer in my employ.”

  For a long minute she and he stared each other into the ground. Thank God, her skirts hid the shaking of her legs. Finally, with a choked oath, the lad broke line and stomped through the still-open front door. The rest regarded his departing back with open-mouthed incredulity.

  “Henceforth in this house, my house, every woman’s work shall be valued and a tweenie will be treated as respectfully as a chef.”

  “Here now, let’s not get carried away,” the small white-haired cook with the unlikely name of Mrs. Kettle muttered.

  “I want Mill House to be a success, not only for my sake, but for the sake of all women. For if a woman like me, without name, station or birth, can through her own perseverance and hard work win an estate the likes of Mill House, what is within your grasp?

  “I tell you plainly, I need your help. I cannot do this alone. If you are not up to the task, if you cannot give me your unswerving loyalty, there is no place for you here.”

  “I’ll stand by you, miss!” the pregnant maid said in a quavering voice.

  “Good!” said Lily. “The rest of you, think of what I’ve said. Consider your future and by week’s end we will see where we stand. You’re all dismissed.”

  As one the ranks broke. The servants milled past, disappearing down halls, through doors, and up stairways, leaving Lily alone with Mr. Flowers.

  “I don’t approve, miss,” he said, scowling fiercely. “I feel obligated to tell you I don’t approve them communist tactics in my household.”

  Lily met the man’s eye squarely. She drew a deep breath. “It isn’t your household, Mr. Flowers, it’s mine. But seeing how you disapprove of me and my … tactics, I feel sure you will be only too happy to know that I will not be requiring the services of a butler.”

  “Wha—?”

  “You’re dismissed, Mr. Flowers.”

  For a second she thought he would argue, but he only sputtered, turned, and stomped away.

  She closed her eyes, stunned by her audacity. Her knees felt watery with relief.

  “I say, you’d have my vote,” a throaty female voice spoke close beside her. “That is, if I had one.”

  Heat consumed Lily. She opened her eyes to find Horatio’s middle-aged spinster daughter, Francesca, standing beside her.

  No one could have looked less like a spinster. Her ash blond hair curled above her pale, drowsy eyes and teased the corners of lips too uniformly rose pink to be natural. She didn’t dress like a spinster, either. Her peacock blue taffeta gown whispered sensuously as she moved closer.

  “I’m Francesca Thorne,” she said. “I’m sorry Evie isn’t here to greet you. She was called down to Eton yesterday. Bernard is unwell—no need for concern, he has bad lungs and occasionally is taken with these attacks. He’ll be fine as long as he stays calm. Evie, in case you hadn’t noticed, is excessively calming.”

  Lily nodded.

  “She asked me to give you a proper greeting,” Francesca said. “Greetings, Miss Bede.” Her three-point smile tipped mockingly.

  “Miss Thorne, I’m sorry if I appear precipitate—”

  “Call me Francesca,” she said. “I admit I was all set to go off to Paris but after that performance—” Again that mysterious smile. “Well, I think I’ll just stay on a while. That’s allowable, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.” Lily cast a troubled look at Francesca’s elaborate coiffure and expensive gown.

  “You mustn’t worry about me and my little staff, Miss Bede,” Francesca said, catching the direction of her glance. “Father would have liked to think I was entirely dependent on him for my income. Suffice to say that Father was wrong.” She shrugged. “Evelyn is another matter. After her husband’s death, Evelyn packed up Bernard and a few belongings and decamped. She landed here and here she’s since lived. Of course, you can always send her packing.”

  Lily, genuinely shocked, pulled away from the older woman. “I wouldn’t do that!”

  “Why not?” Francesca asked. “Men do it all the time.”

  “Just another reason in a fistful of reasons why women are better off without them.”

  “Pray, dear God, remember,” Francesca’s hand flew to her chest as her eyes rose heavenward, “she said it, not I! Any celestial reckoning should exclude me. Come, Miss Bede, I’ve ordered tea in my room upstairs. This way, please.”

  Lily trailed behind Francesca, her avid gaze taking in the house’s lovely accoutrements: an oriental runner, a malachite inlaid table, a priceless Sevres vase overflowing with shaggy bronze chrysanthemums. In spite of Francesca’s provocations, things were going better than she’d anticipated. She’d met nearly everyone affected by Horatio Thorne’s will and none of them seemed likely to cause trouble except—

  “Except for Avery Thorne,” she murmured. She’d spent a great deal of time thinking about the would-be heir to Mill House. Unpleasant thoughts, as his name always brought a tincture of guilt with it. And guilt, she’d discovered, often was trailed by suspicion. “He’s up to something. I know it.”

  “I didn’t hear you, Miss Bede,” Francesca said.

  “I believe Avery Thorne is attempting to preempt my bid for Mill House.” Curse her penchant for speaking her thoughts aloud.

  Francesca, however, didn’t appear offended. “And what makes you think that?”

  Lily considered prevaricating but then, this woman might provide some insight into Avery Thorne. “His desire to see not simply the world, but the most inaccessible part of the world,” she said. “I believe that by putting himself beyond my reach Avery Thorne is attempting to make me lose Mill House.”

  Francesca looked baffled. “But how?”

  “By making it appear that I am negligent in my duty to provide him an adequate living during the tenure of my guardianship. By making it impossible to deliver to him the allowance I am compelled, by the terms of this will, to provide.” Lily folded her hands primly at her waist, her smile grim. “He shan’t be successful. My parents had friends throughout the world. I assure you, if Avery Thorne is within a day’s march of one, he’ll get his allowance.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.” Francesca sounded sincere. “Avery is not the type to bother with plots.”

  She sighed, her expression fond if rueful. “He would never do anything underhanded. For whatever unaccountable reasons, Avery has always labored under the delusion that he is the quintessential gentleman. He’s not. He’s had scant experience with polite society and it shows, sometimes to a lamentable degree. Indeed, his ‘gentlemanliness’ is a matter of honor not etiquette—though he’d be the first to argue that point.”

  “He is a man, Miss Thorne, and as a man,” Lily instructed, “he is capable of anything when it comes to getting his way.”

  Francesca turned her hands up, defeated, as Lily knew she must be, by the weight of such unassailable logic.

 
; “Forgive me, Miss Thorne,” Lily hurriedly said, “for speaking so insensitively about your home. I realize it must be difficult to see it ‘put up for grabs’ as it were and I think you’re being splendidly gracious about it.”

  Francesca swung around. “Oh, dear, no. It isn’t and never has been my home. Nor Evie’s, really. As I said, she’s lived here only since her husband Gerald died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’d be the only one.” Francesca hooked her arm through Lily’s and led her up a curving staircase. “My dear brother spent years trying to get poor Evie with child—a male child. Upon hearing he’d succeeded, old Ger promptly drank himself into a standing stupor, insisted that his stallion be saddled—because a man who has just produced a son can hardly ride a gelding, can he?—and rode off to inform the neighborhood. He broke his neck before his son’s first wails had died away.”

  “But that’s tragic,” Lily exclaimed.

  “Gerald was a great bullying monster. Evie is still recovering from her marriage to him. You might as well hear it from me rather than the servants. Oh, dear. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”

  “Not really,” Lily answered.

  She’d heard the same story countless times before. Women seldom sought divorce on the grounds of abuse. Proof of such rarely fell short of physical disfigurement. And few women took the option of leaving their spouses, since it often meant leaving their children as well. As her mother had left her children.

  She forced her chin up. It had been a long while since she’d thought of her half-brother and sister.

  Francesca glanced at her curiously but Lily forbade comment. They’d reached the top of the stairs and arrived on a landing with halls shooting off from either end.

  “Here begins the grand tour,” Francesca said and then began in a false, clipped accent. “Mill House has twenty-two rooms. Or maybe more. Perhaps fewer. I’ve never counted them. I do know, however, that there are eight bedrooms. I’m sure that at one time or another I’ve slept in them all.” Her glance was purposefully suggestive.

  Lily returned her look complacently. Despite her mother’s diligent shielding, she’d still been raised amidst a very loose society. Francesca would have to do better than that if she wished to shock her. “Then perhaps you might advise me on which has the best mattress?”